The Dilemma
The door slammed in my face.
A cold breeze flapped the corners of my overcoat, and I quickly reached up to keep my hat atop my head.
My lady’s maid Amelia Dewey sighed. “I’m sorry, mum.”
Carriages and horses, women and men passed by, never giving me a glance. The wooden banister snagged my glove as I descended the cracked steps. The midmorning light was weak, thin, pale.
Amelia glanced around. “Do we go on?”
Did I have any choice? “We go on.”
But it was much the same on 24th Street as on all the rest. The response varied from fearful curtsies to angry curses. The answer still was no.
No, they didn’t need an investigator.
No, they knew no one who might.
No, I couldn’t come in.
“f*****g Pot rag” was the most blunt way it’d been expressed, but their eyes all said it.
T
